


Of Rifts and Tiny Cakes

by d4eaming



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d4eaming/pseuds/d4eaming
Summary: Male rogue Levellan, Andruihan, is accompanied by Vivienne, Solas, and Dorian as they attempt to teach him how to use his Mark to disrupt rifts. Every attempt to teach a rogue how to wield a piece of magic fails until Dorian takes it upon himself to be the instructor and send the others away. Flirting and innuendo are additional lessons. 
This is an attempt to give depth to how I feel my Inquisitor experiences the Mark being part of him as a non-mage, very loosely based on a brief dialog option at Skyhold. 
I might have got a bit overexcited here, it's longer than I intended. Oops. 
Enjoy?





	

“ _ Fenedhis lasa _ ,  _ ar’dara bor’assan’len _ . I am not a mage!”

Andruihan clenched his left fist and flexed his wrist, twisting his hand back and forth several times as a tremor ran through it. The sun was beating down and sweat dribbled across his brow and down his temples, soaking into the thick collar around his throat. Not even the light breeze sighing through the trees eased the warmth that swathed his skin with slick, itchy sweat.

“My dear, it is only a matter of concentration and effort. I assure you it will work if you assert your will properly. Like so.” Vivienne extended one elegant finger, its nail clad in a sultry red paint. With barely a twitch of her brow, an orange wisp burst into existence, sputtering with a low hiss. It lit up her eyes, spreading a golden glow across her cool irises.

He rubbed the back of his hand across his brow then wiped it against his leather jerkin. The dormant rift rippled nearby, the occasional vibrant green spark spewing into the air; its tethered mark twined itself around his left hand, pulsing as if with breath. He tightened his fist, nails digging into the skin of his palm before he forced himself to relax.

A heavy sigh escaped through his nose as he pursed his lips. “You say it as if I know what I’m doing. I launch arrows, not fireballs. My weapon is a thing I can see and my targets are clear.”

“Darling, with that attitude, it’s a miracle you accomplish half of what you start.” The madame mage curled her fingers to her palm while turning her wrist, smothering the fiery orb until it winked out with a pitiful fizzle. “Concentrate, dear Lavellan. Surely you must feel the magic as it moves through you? Take hold of that feeling, grip it as with a vice, and command it.”

His gaze drifted from the glowing fracture that hung above their heads to the sickly green, cold flame that writhed around his hand. A never-ending tingle coursed from fingertips to wrist, robbing his skin of its delicate sense of touch; he could feel neither the cool breeze, the warmth of a fire, nor the rough hide of the leathers and silverite studs that formed his armor. Each pulse of the parasitic magic sent pain coursing across his flesh. He grimaced and forced his attention away from it.

“Perhaps a different approach is called for. Andru, what do you remember of the Breach?” Solas motioned from a small outcropping where he stood watching over them. His expression was even, belying nothing of his thoughts beneath his calm visage.

Andruihan shook his head. “I don’t remember.” He tucked loose strands of hair behind his pointed ear where they immediately stuck to his damp skin. A vagrant wind drew a cool lick over the back of his neck, offering a brief respite before dying down once again. “I don’t know what happened. It just… did.”

“Nothing ‘just happens,’ dear. There is control, and either you have it, or you do not. Either you control it, or it controls you.” Vivienne all but swaggered closer, a hand extended, her slender fingers unfurling toward him.

“I didn’t control it.” He gestured at Solas. “In fact, I remember him bringing me to the first rift. Maybe Solas empowered it?”

The elven mage let a smile crack across his face, his head tilting just so. “I assure you, I did not. That was you, Andruihan. How, I know not, and that is the puzzle we are here to solve.”

Slapping a hand against his hip, he could only shake his head, his lips pursed and brows wrinkled in exasperation. “This is too much. I need a break.”

Vivienne arched a brow, her chin lifting slightly. “Perhaps there is too much distraction here.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Insects, trees, suffocating humidity, crows eager to peck your eyeballs out. What’s to be distracted by?” Dorian flashed a grin from where he lounged in the shade of of a trio of evergreens, propped on one elbow and with a knee bent.

“Only minor annoyances, if you can focus your mind, Andruihan. We must find the correct method. There are many ways to weave the magic of the fade.” Solas dropped from his boulder perch to the thick grass below.

Andru pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing against them while he squeezed his eyes shut. The discordant chime of crystals clanging together drove spikes into his skull just behind his eyes, clogging his ears and blocking the sounds of birds and bugs that had trilled their song on the road to the rift. Listening to his would-be teachers argue amongst themselves had done nothing to soothe the pain digging its way into his brain.

“You bicker like old wives. I ask a question and get five answers and a treatise on the dangers of lyrium and roses This-”

“-but lyrium roses are so  _ pretty _ -” Dorian quipped from his reclined position, an amused look turning up one corner of his mouth.

He shot the Tevinter a look, half rolling his eyes. “This is done.” Andru ground his teeth together, his knuckles turning white with the strain of his clenched fist. He turned his back to them -and the rift and its twanging song- to stumble through the overgrowth toward the horses in the distance.

“Andruihan, surely you are not leaving this rift unattended? It would be unwise to walk away from such a wealth of educational experience. Perhaps even politically foolish.” Vivienne’s voice remained smooth, polite, even as it cut deep. She stood, staff in hand and angled gently away from her hip, just visible in his peripheral vision.

He imagined her as a dragon, ready to pounce at any hint of weakness.

“Cullen can send a detachment to keep it corralled.” A wisp of long, raven-black hair had come loose from the ribbon tied at the base of his skull and glued itself across his brow, curling over a raised cheekbone and following the crease of his nostril before the end of it found the freedom to dangle from his chin. He brushed it back absently even as his boots skid along a slab of stone.

“I think you should try for just a bit longer, Andruihan. There has to be a method, some secret or sorcery to work to your benefit.” Solas’ soft voice penetrated the ringing in his ears.

Still, he waved the elf off with the flick of his right hand. Stopping next to the red roan grazing on lush grass, he unhooked his waterskin, then stepped away from the path and into the coolness of a large tree, leaning against the thick trunk. He turned his head toward the horizon opposite the rift. Sundown couldn’t come fast enough and hasten their retreat to Skyhold where he could hide himself away from their silent- and often vocal- judgement.

“Oh, I think he’s quit finished for the day. Just in time for an afternoon sip and tiny cakes fresh from the kitchen.” Dorian grinned from his resting place, flashing a broad smile around. “His head might explode if we keep trying to stuff it with arcane knowledge and wild guessing.”

“And you see nothing wrong with abandoning the lesson, incomplete, because it is a difficult one? What would you suggest, Dorian?” Vivienne’s voice sliced through the thick heat of the day.

He glanced toward the three of them as Dorian pushed himself to his feet and brushed the dust from his silk trousers. A grin played across the Tevinter’s face as he gripped his crystal tipped staff, giving it a little twirl as he spun on his heel. He almost seemed to float before he came to a stop before Andruihan and tipped his head down slightly.

“I think you should wave your sparkly hand at the rift until it grows weary of boredom and banishes itself. That would be a more effective solution than reciting magic theory and poetry at it.”

“I don’t recall reciting poetry.” Andruihan lifted a brow, then raised his waterskin to his lips, savoring the cool liquid as it flowed over parched skin.

“Ah, but the afternoon is still young. Anything could happen.” Dorian passed a finger over one side of his mustache, smoothing down the black hairs that threatened to lose their shape. “If you’ll allow me?”

He looked over to where Vivienne and Solas straggled behind, their expressions beyond his guessing. Andru waved them past, inclining his head toward the horses. “We’ll meet at the camp.” He looked to Dorian again, who simply smiled broadly. “Soon. Likely.”

Dorian laughed, a hearty chuckle that momentarily drew his attention from the ache in his head and the piercing whine of the rift. His eyes were a warm grey that gathered color from the world around them, reflecting a soft brown with a hint of green as the occasional breeze rustled the trees. The skin at the corners of his eyes creased in time with his smile as his head lowered just slightly.

“I think you’re trying too hard. It’s like the drifting of a dove’s feather on the breeze, not a boulder falling from the sky.”

Andru shook his head and attached the waterskin to a loop on his belt. “I don’t follow. What are you comparing? A boulder or a feather, I still can’t stop them.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” Dorian stepped away and drove the end of his staff into the soft dirt, twisting it into the ground several inches until it could remain upright unaided. Letting his hand fall away, he spread his arms wide. “Not the stone or the feather. It’s the  _ air _ .”

Dorian waved both hands, then rotated them as if caressing an invisible globe.The crystal at the staff’s tip began to glow, a bluish white light gathering around it, then swirling and dipping, shifting and curling. Andru squinted as it brightened further before breaking into a half dozen smaller lights, each orbiting the staff, leaving behind them a streaking tail that quickly faded.

“What is it?”

“Andru, you know how to swim, yes?”

“When necessary.”

“Then imagine the currents of a river. Sometimes you can see them as they effect the sand at the bottom or the leaves on their surface, sometimes they remain invisible- but you can still feel them.” Dorian stepped backward until they stood shoulder to shoulder and extended a hand toward the staff. “Imagine the magic like the current.”

“This is….” Andruihan trailed off. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind and trying to focus. Raising his left hand, he tried to feel for the currents Dorian spoke of; he tried to feel for anything at all, anything that stood out from the heat of the day, the wind that cooled the sweat on his face. Several long moments drew themselves out to an uncomfortable length and he began to feel self-conscious.

When Andru opened his eyes, he caught Dorian gazing at him, a brow raised quizzically. A hot flash raced across his cheeks and up to his ear tips before spreading across the back of his neck. Everything, it seemed, rested on his ability to master the Mark, and he felt no closer to that goal.

“You have no innate magic, but that Mark has a connection to it. You can feel the fade rift. Can you feel magic with it, as well?” He went back to the staff, circling around it and passing a hand through the swirling lights. They darted away like fireflies, shimmying and quivering before resuming their orbits. Dorian turned eyes back to him. His irises caught the light, taking on an impossible shade of pale blue.

He sighed and raised his left hand. The crackling green light flickered, sending ripples of pain coursing over his skin and through his muscles. His fingers trembled as he stepped forward, reaching toward the lights. Nothing. He felt nothing. A snort of air escaped his nostrils, his nose wrinkling, his upper lip curling. The breeze shifted, blowing the unkempt ends of his hair every which way, flicking into his eyes. He blinked rapidly, frustration welling up.

Andru began to lower his hand; the day had drug long past the strength of his patience, the last thread of his willpower ready to fade with the sun and let him sink into a pile of blankets. “ _ Tel’dirthara _ . I can’t.”

“Wait.” Dorian reached forward and caught his hand, palm pressing against his own.

He flinched, wanting to pull away, but curiosity gripped him and he stilled his hand. Dorian raised his other hand and extended a finger, lightly touching the tip of it to his exposed forearm. The fine hairs that sparsely covered his skin lifted up, bumps spreading outward.

“Like this. If this were a current.” Dorian trailed his finger toward Andru’s wrist, turning inward to the base of his thumb. “What does this feel like?”

Andruihan licked his lips. “A tickle on my arm, but there… I can’t feel that. There’s this- this  _ thrumming _ , it blocks out everything else.”

“Are you certain?” Dorian dragged his finger over the first knuckle and then to his thumb tip.

He wiggled his fingers, desperately trying to banish the numbness and sense something more. The mage all but caressed his skin, retracing the same line he’d already drawn. Andru lowered his head and half closed his eyes, pushing all thoughts from his mind and ignoring the sounds around them. Maybe there was; maybe, nearly lost to the ache of the Mark, there was some warmth, some sensation almost too subtle.

“I think. It’s hard to tell. It’s like when you’ve slept on your arm and can barely move it, the blood starts to flow back, and all you can feel is a tingling numbness. But this-” He shifted his thumb against Dorian’s fingertip which still hovered at the base of his nail. “This never goes away.”

“Really?” Dorian pressed them palms together more fully and moved his fingers across the back of Andru’s hand, following the lengths of his fingers. “That’s a shame. Hands have so many wonderful uses.”

He snorted through his nose, lifting his gaze to look at Dorian again. A wistful smile played across his features, giving rise to a small grin. “Do they? I had no idea.” Then he frowned, eyebrows knitting together. He turned his head to follow the movement of Dorian’s touch. His middle and first fingers twitched. Was that…? “I think I feel something.”

Dorian laughed and stepped back, placing both hands on his hips and leaning his weight to one side. “I certainly hope so. All this flirtation would be for naught otherwise.”

“‘All this flirtation’? I’m sure you’d enjoy it even if it didn’t lead to anywhere in particular.” Andru cast a glance at him as he approached the upright staff and its spectacle of glowing tendrils.

“Oh, quite likely. There’s nothing like good, salacious banter to whet the appetite and kindle a fire in one’s belly.” Dorian brushed two fingers across one side of his mustache, then gave the pointed end a suggestive twirl. “Even if said fire only comes to a sputtering end in the wee hours of a lonely night.”

He barely stopped the roll of his eyes skyward as he watched Dorian from the peripheral of his vision. “And, sometimes it’s insufferable.” Andruihan passed his forearm across his sweat bathed face. Even the cool breeze couldn’t quite cool his flesh; beads of sweat sat pooling at his temple still, and soaking into his scalp. Waist length hair had tangled itself into knots, catching a few burs and tufts of fuzzy tree pollen, all while winding around his side and catching beneath his armpit.

“All part of the charm.” Dorian rested his chin atop a few curled fingers, his opposite arm crossed over his torso and supporting his elbow. “Now what, pray tell, was it you just felt, before all this distraction occurred?”

Andru wiggled his fingers and watched the crackling, sickly glow of the Mark sparking at the swirling, pale lights. They clashed, each brightening and fading in turn, an ethereal battle seeming to wage between them. At each pulse of the Mark, the magical orbs darted away to safety, then barreled back when the green light faded. His eyes closed as he held his breath, seeking, seeking, to feel the ripples through the numbing thrum.

His vision darkened behind lowered lids, lit only by alternating bursts of green and blue, quick flashes that reminded him of lightning on a pitch evening, lighting up steel clouds. His index finger twitched as something light drifted across it. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he focused, brows coming together into a deep frown.

There! Again! A ghostly brush of something ephemeral, there and gone again the moment he sensed it. Blue light pulsed against his eyelids, and with it came the sensation of something slithering across the backs of his knuckles. It retreated as green light overpowered the darkness of his closed eyelids. Andruihan opened his eyes to slits to watch the play of light. Every flash of blue brought with it the faintest hint of something supple and warm, each matching a blue orb with trailing tail shooting past his knuckles.

“I… Dorian! I can feel it.”

Andru looked toward the mage, whose face was lit with a triumphant grin. Dorian gestured toward the rift hanging above and beyond them, sparking with green fire as shards of the broken fade cut through the air like shattered glass.

“Good! Take that feeling and use it on the rift. Imagine your fist closing upon it and crushing down.”

Nodding, Andru stepped away from the staff and turned his attention toward the rift. It screamed inside his head as a jagged arc shot through the air from the Mark engulfing his hand and struck the clanging tear in the fabric of the world. The two companion pieces of the fade remained connected by a writhing umbilicus that burned as brightly as the breach itself.

The flanging cry of the rift filled his ears while it throbbed with piercing light. Andruihan’s eyes squinted against the brightness of it. One foot slid backward to brace himself as he stretched, reaching toward the rift.

_ Close it. Crush it. _

The words filled his head, somehow overpowering the monumental clash of Mark against Rift.

The Rift pulsed like a dying animal fighting for its life as a predator rend its throat. He imagined- no,  _ willed _ , the umbilical magic to wrap and wind around the Rift, to tighten, strangulate, to slice like cheese wire into flesh and sheer away chunk and slab of crystalline, twanging abomination of fractured reality.

His ears rang with reverberation to the point of pain. Wincing, he could feel his determination begin to falter, his muscles strain. Surely, he could battle a pack of wolves barehanded and valiant before he could master the Mark. Or even muster the strength to sever his now cursed hand and be done with the responsibility altogether.

_ Tel’dirthara. Impossible. It's impossible, I can't- _

A thunderous crack shattered the air above him, so loud his bones shuddered. The ground shook beneath his boots as a shockwave rolled past, and he couldn’t help but to fall to the ground, knees slamming against the grassy turf hard enough to pull a grunt from between his lips. Both hands clapped over his ears, though it was too late to protect them from the pain.

Silence fell around him. Andruihan hesitantly pulled his hands away from his sensitive ears, which rang in the wake of the mighty thunder. Opening his eyes, he dared not look up to see whether the rift remained, certain that it had defeated him.

Something brushed over his shoulder, followed by a swirl of cream and royal blue. He blinked, lifting up his head as Dorian dropped to a knee before him, both of the mage’s hands falling to his shoulders. Dorian’s mouth moved, and his eyes gleamed, his head nodding. Andru began to shake his own head as Dorian’s words faded in and out.

“...ihan! You… it!”

“What?” Andru cast his gaze upward to see nothing but a vast, hazy sky, the last remnants of veridian tendrils dissipating.

Dorian tossed his head back in a bemused laugh. His mouth moved again, the words becoming more clear as Andru’s hearing returned. A stream of near-babbling escaped the Tevinter’s mouth as he spoke excitedly.

“... said, you did it. Andru, you closed the rift. Haha!”

The mage stood and grasped Andru’s wrist, all but yanking him to his feet. He gazed up at Dorian’s eyes; the pale grey irises no longer reflected the sickly taint of the Rift. Dorian looked as unruffled as a pigeon at roost, and as bright and cocky as a strutting peacock. The Tevinter’s swarthy skin didn't even bare the slick of sweat. If he leaned forward, Andruihan imagined he probably still smelled of the chamomile and rose of his morning bath.

“Oh.” Andru darted his eyes back to the sky.

Dorian took Andru’s left hand in his own and lifted it up, turning the palm skyward. “And, the Mark on your hand has finally calmed itself and receded.”

Looking downward, Andruihan flexed his fingers. His skin was pale and unmarred, normal. If it'd only been a mere month earlier, it would have still been that way. “You didn't hear that noise? When the Mark and Rift connected?”

“Are you certain you're okay?” Dorian pressed his hand to Andru’s forehead for a moment. “I didn't hear a thing. The fall must have rattled your brains.”

Andru shook his head and stepped away, then brushed the grass and dirt from his trousers. His ears rang, but it had wound down to a bearable tinkle that a good night's sleep would easily banish.

“I’m fine. I heard it make noise, but maybe only I hear it, because of the Mark. It was deafening.”

A soft smile eased onto Dorian’s lips. “Perhaps so. We know so little of it. You should tell Solas what you heard, what it was like. He may know something about it.”

“I’m sure Vivienne would like to know, as well.”

“Ah. No.” Dorian held up one finger and shook it, his smile turning mischievous. “Let her wonder and stew on it.”

Andruihan snorted and grinned, his head shaking. “Why?”

“Because it will amuse me. Why else?”

He chuckled as he looked at Dorian’s bright expression. “You want her to have to come ask you, don't you?”

“It will give me just enough time to weave a tale of treachery and romance, of cunning and decisiveness. A tale fit for a bard to embellish, to mock the masculinity of every man and woo every woman. A grand tale of Ser Lavellan, Conqueror of the Fade.” Dorian raised both brows and turned his hands upward, fingers waving encouragement.

“You've been spending too much time with Varric.” Still, Andru wondered just how Vivienne would take the teasing before she turned to verbal evisceration and frosty disinterest. He didn't think he'd enjoy being witness to that exchange.

“No. Yes! Grand idea! We shall confer with him immediately.” Then, Dorian’s expression turned serious, his brows falling and his lips pressing into a thin line. “You must be famished. You're rather pale, actually. Come.”

Dorian spun on a heel and strode past, the soft rustle of fine fabrics following in his wake. The mage barely flicked his wrist as he past the still standing staff; it leaned toward him as though magnetized and fluidly fell into his hand. The glowing, swirling orbs snuffed themselves into a puff of shimmering dust and vanished into the aether.

Andru parted his lips to reply, but stopped before breath even slipped through them. He cast one last, lingering glance at the sky. Though it had eased since the Rift closed, the dull ache remained entwined in the flesh of his left hand. With it, though, a second sensation flowed like the finest of of silks drawn across his skin.

_ Currents of magic _ .

How did it not overwhelm and drive them to madness? He wondered if the feeling of magic lingered with a mage the way the Mark lingered. Perhaps he'd have a chance to ask, assuming he could ever pin Dorian long enough to goad him into leaving aside his typical flippant.

Andru shook the thought from his head and half jogged after the mage. As they walked side-by-side, he couldn't help but turn his head just so, until Dorian was in his view. They approached the horses, where Dorian stopped and turned toward him once more.

“Would you care to join me for dinner, Ser Lavellan?”

“The tav?”

“I… had in mind something more intimate. You look quite worn. I know of a quiet corner we could dine in peace.” As Dorian gazed at him, one side of his mouth curled up, and his eyes gleamed.

He took a deep breath, then eased it out through his nostrils. There was an ache across his shoulders, truth be told, and a creak in his spine. His joints still felt rattled, too. A hot bath, warm meal, and a mug of bitter ale sounded appealing, especially if they came accompanied by a certain olive-toned mage.

_ Wait _ .

Heat rushed up his ears.

_ Perhaps not the first one _ .

Dorian’s stare deepened as he looked on quizzically, a brow arching upward. “Is it safe to assume that some form of consent just flitted across your mind and danced a jig in there?”

Andru brought a fist to his mouth as coughed, then quickly turned to his horse to fit the pointed toe of his boot into the stirrup. “Something like that.”

He heard Dorian clap both hands together and chortle, but he dared not look at him again. Who knew what the mage might be thinking now, and he wasn't sure he could trust himself not to stutter or fumble his words. Safety reigned in silence at just that moment, and he retreated deep into it.

“Marvelous. It's a date, then.”

_ Something like that.  _

 


End file.
